The Creepy Uncle Stereotype Confirmed

The contents of this blog will once again focus on a struggle I am encountering in Uganda. I do not, however, want to give the impression that I am not enjoying my time or that I feel unsafe here. I am enjoying myself greatly and would not trade these few months for anything. 

I should also mention what I have been up to the past few weeks. We are now in the independent study portion of the semester. In the SIT program, each student can research a specific part of development over six weeks. We no longer have class, but instead individually research our topic. Today marks the first day of the third week of the independent study. I am researching the role that the Ugandan Parliament plays in development. To do this, I am interning in the Public Relations office of Parliament. I have yet to do anything interesting or substantial. But I do have internet and a computer, so I can’t complain too much.

During this period, I am living with five other SIT students in an apartment in Kampala. It’s been a lot of fun so far. We had a house party this weekend. I made Thai food for dinner and pancakes in the morning. It’s been great to have a kitchen and less crowded streets to run on. Over the last two weeks, I ran every day and have enjoyed the boost of self-confidence that accompanies such an accomplishment. 

As I am living in a nice apartment with American students and as I work in an air-conditioned office with a computer, it is sometimes easy to forget I am still in Uganda. But this past week several experiences quickly reoriented me to my location in Africa. I have three stories. One is about a run, one about a boda-boda, and one about a meal. 

First, the story of a run. 

Amna is an eleven year old girl who lives on the same street. Every day she waved as I ran by her home. Then, last Wednesday she showed up at my door as I was getting ready to run. For the first time, I saw she was wearing shoes. As I headed out and started to run, she joined me. She had planned to run with me. At first, I tried to make small talk, but eventually just settled into the rhythm of the run. 

Five minutes in, a man yelled “muzungu!” (white person) and started to run next to me. “Hello, my name is Henry. You are very beautiful,” he said with a toothy grin. He did not greet Amna.

This was not the first time that a Ugandan man had attempted to run with me nor was it the first time I was told I was beautiful. While I found both annoying, I decided to be friendly. 

“Hi, I’m Kyla and this is my friend Amna,” I replied. For the next few minutes, Henry asked me where I stayed in Uganda, what I was doing here, and where I was from. He still did not acknowledge Amna. His eyes kept sweeping over my body and he told me several times that I was “very fit, very healthy.” Henry was fat and slow and I wanted to be free from the awkward conversation. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you Henry,” I said abruptly in an attempt to get him to leave.

“So, we are friends?” he asked eagerly. 

“Well, I will say ‘hi’ when I run by,” I offered.

“Oh good,” he said with a smile, “I have always wanted a white friend. It is very good to have a white friend. Would you want to go out tonight so I can show my brothers that I have a white friend?” He looked as if he expected me to take this as a compliment. 

I told him that I was very busy and could not go out. After a minute more, my turn finally came and I said good-bye. 

Amna was tired and stayed at her house for my next lap. The last five minutes she rejoined me. I told her good job and thanked her for running with me. I was touched that a little girl had taken an interest in running and wanted to spend time with me. I inwardly smiled at the ability for running to connect people across cultures. A cute and amusing friendship had formed. Or so I thought. 

“You know, school is very expensive here. I need books and supplies and dresses. It would be very nice if you would give me money for school.”

And the reason for the run was suddenly clear. I was an opportunity, a foreign benefactor. 

I explained to Amna that I was a student too, that I worked hard to pay for my own school, and that I did not have enough money to do what she asked. All of these statements were true. She smiled and then asked again for money. I explained again. She asked a third time. 

Since Wednesday, Amna has run with me almost every day. And every day she again asks for money. 

Then, last night I was going to dinner with a group of friends. My friend David and I were riding a boda-boda when he lost some money out of his pocket. When we asked the driver to stop and go back, we realized he did not speak English. We asked a gentlemen walking by to help by translating. This gentleman just so happened to be Henry. I called him by name, asked how he was, and explained the situation. He spent 15 seconds translating for us. The driver understood, smiled and said “Tu gende!”(Let’s go!) As David and I got back on the boda, I thanked Henry for his help. Henry then asked me for 5,000 shillings for translating (the amount normally paid for an entire’s day work).

“But Henry, we’re friends. Friends help each other out,” I said. 

“But you’re white. Pay me,” he said in a tone that made me uncomfortable. 

 

I once again thanked him for his help and the boda began to drive off. Henry grabbed my backside and catcalled. 

Henry and I do not share the same definition of friendship. 

The next night, my friends and I received an invitation to come over to our land lord’s house. We had admired his house every since we moved in. There was a swimming pool, unnaturally green grass, and two separate houses, both of which were at least twice the size of mine in the US. Although we were a little apprehensive that they insisted on inviting “only the females” over, the prospect of a free meal, house tour, and what was sure to be an interesting experience was too much to resist. 

And so eight American ladies walked the 20 meters to his house. We were taken up to the third floor where a liquor cabinet was prominently displayed. The room had the biggest television I had ever seen. As we sipped a glass of wine, we were introduced to Ben, the multi-millionaire and owner of the home, and Elly, his brother and the groundskeeper. The owner insisted we call him “Uncle Ben.” Both men were 45-50 years old.  

We were taken aback by the extravagance of the home. After living in homes with pit latrines and no running water, it was exhilarating to see a home that was three stories high, had 8 bed rooms with private baths, and even a gym. After the tour, we sat on the balcony and laughed at what an interesting experience this was and how we would have such good stories to tell. 

And then it got real weird, real fast. 

Uncle Ben began to talk about himself. His business, his wealth, his role in discovering oil. The only question he asked us was how old we were. And why we weren’t drinking more alcohol. 

After about half an hour of Uncle Ben’s unending bragging, we headed to dinner. Elly carried 10 bottles of alcohol in a basket in case “the restaurant didn’t have good booze.” Elly also insisted on sitting in the back row tightly packed between several girls. All of us were growing rather apprehensive, but we kept trying to find humor in the situation. 

On our way to the restaurant, Uncle Ben informed us that we were going to a “family place.” This is where his large extended family gathered every weekend. As Uncle Ben and Elly greeted their family at the restaurant, they were congratulated, patted on the back, and grins abounded. 

The waitresses brought out chairs and arranged them in a circle. Initially, my friends and I sat on one side of the circle so that we could better talk to each other.  Elly insisted that some of us move so that we would “surround Uncle Ben.”

Elly sat next to me. Even though I was not drinking, he continually insisted that I do so. Any time anyone did not have a drink in their hand, they were reprimanded and given one. His eyes burned holes through my chest, my backside. His hand kept brushing my leg even though I had scooted my chair as far away as possible. He told us, “when we are drunk, we will dance.” 

We wanted to go. Badly. 

We told the men that we needed to go home because our friends we were waiting for us. They kept saying we would go soon. Elly invited us to sleep at their house that night, even though it is literally a 20 second walk from their gate to our door. “We have many, many beds. Enough for two people in each bed.” Horrified at the thought of the offer, we told Elly that our male friends at home would be worried if we slept at his house. They wanted us home with them. 

Elly grew angry. “You lied to us. You told us you have no husbands, but now you will not sleep in our beds because there are men at your home. You told us you were free. ”

I wanted to cry. Elly kept inquiring why I wasn’t drinking more, why I didn’t look like I was having a good time, why I wasn’t talking more. “Everyone else is having fun, but you look miserable. Drink more and then we will dance and you will have fun.”

Finally, finally we convinced them that we really did have to go. As Uncle Ben went to get the car, Elly made a final, haunting plea. “Before Uncle Ben gets back, I want to let you all know that I love the way you are dressed. You all look so nice. You are all so very beautiful. We would love to have you stay with us tonight.” His eyes made another hungry sweep of our bodies. 

We got in the van. Uncle Ben was drunk. Uncle Ben drove us home, blasting techno music, dancing to the beat. Elly kept stroking my friend’s leg. 

We arrived home safely. I lay in bed and thought about the evening. 

I felt dirty. I felt cheap. I felt nauseous. 

Never before have I so truly understood the term “objectification.” The only interest those men had in me was as a status symbol and as a sex object. My outward body was the only thing that mattered. Not my personality, not my brain. I was truly an object to them. They took us to their family place to show off to their kin just how powerful they were, just how far they had come to be surrounded by white women. We were there for display, and for their hungry eyes to disgustingly devour. 

These experiences this past week all share a common thread. In each instance, someone wanted to use me for something. And the way they wanted to use me was determined by my race. Amna assumed I was wealthy because I was white, and so she wanted school fees. Henry wanted to use me to impress his friends. Uncle Ben and Elly wanted to use me as a status symbol and for sex. 

This is a daily struggle in Uganda. Coming here, I sought in to connect, to relate, to understand Ugandans. To feel like I had made true friendships, to feel like I belonged, to feel that I had gained a true cross-cultural understanding. Part of what has been so hard about this experience is my inability to do that. Sure, I connect with the SIT staff and I feel a connection, a true friendship with my host brothers. But, I don't feel a connection with the man on the street who shouts lewd comments at me, the man demanding I pay him more money than the Ugandans on the taxi, the children and adults who constantly scream my race at me. I try to have real conversations with these people, I try to feel like I can connect with them, understand their culture and the way they live, but they can never see me as anything other than a white person. A white person who might be able to raise their status if I am friends with them, a white person who might be able to get them a passport to the US, a white person who might buy them something nice. I can't tell you the number of times I will think I "made a friend" or "had an educational conversation" or "had a cultural moment" only to be asked for school fees or an expensive meal.  There are lots of Amnas here. I will think that I have made a connection with a person, that we can see how our lives can be somewhat similar in these two different countries--we're both earning our education, working hard. And yet they still are not interested in this connection, they still try to use me for what they want.  I want to scream, "No, no, no! You have not understood! I am a student too! I work hard too! I thought we just understood each other and you saw me as an equal, a person to relate too! But instead of listening to my words, you only see my skin, hear where I am from, and nothing else."

 

I suppose it potentially does not reflect on me well to be complaining about being a white person in Africa. For feeling treated differently because my race is traditionally viewed with privilege. To those critics, I would say that I am not attempting to cry out at the injustice of being treated differently or to criticize Ugandans for such behavior. I am only expressing how it has been a struggle to lack the ability to connect with people due to the way they view my race. 

My identity is not my race. My worth as a human is not found in my body, it is found in my mind. I am not a status symbol. But being viewed in that way is difficult.